eaking
quickly enough.

Daoud sent Lorenzo a signal with two fingers. Lorenzo sprang at Sordello
with his blade, a dagger so big it was almost a short sword, and slashed
at his tunic, belt, and hose. The blacks grinned. Sordello roared his
protests. A last flick of the blade cut away his grimy loincloth. In a
moment Sordello hung naked on the ring, his shredded clothes hanging
from his ankles or lying on the flagstone floor. His body was wiry and
muscular, with only a small paunch at the waist. The flickering
torchlight picked out the shadows of scars crossing his chest and belly.
Daoud stared with curiosity and faint distaste at the uncircumcised
penis peeping from its thicket of grizzled hair.

Daoud put his fingertips together and casually crossed his legs,
lounging back in the throne, letting the contrast between his position
and Sordello's sink in. He prayed that the man might succumb. His soul
must be made of sand; how could it be otherwise?

The ring slowly rotated. Sordello twisted his head to look over his
shoulder at Daoud.

"If you kill me, he will know." There was the faintest quiver in his
voice.

Daoud chose not to ask the obvious question--who "he" was--but said,
keeping his voice soft and kindly, "What will he learn from your death,
Sordello?"

Before Sordello could answer, Lorenzo burst out, "We are not going to
kill him for a long while, are we, Messer David? You promised me I could
have some sport."

"Quiet, Giancarlo," said Daoud, narrowing his eyes. "You shall have your
sport."

"Why torture me? Why kill me?" There was a plea in Sordello's voice now.
"I have told nothing that could hurt you."

"You have told _us_ nothing, Sordello." Daoud stood up. The platform on
which the throne chair stood gave him impressive height, and the torches
high in the wall behind him threw his shadow across the room.

"I admire your fidelity to your master, whoever he is," Daoud said with
a smile. "What a pity he will never know about it. As I told you, this
is hell, and you are dead already. You will just vanish, like a bit of
rubbish washed out of the city by the rain. Your master will probably
think you deserted him, as your sort of wandering ladrone so often
does."

"I am not a highwayman!" Sordello's cry echoed against the stone vault.
"I am a man of honor. I am an educated man, a trovatore."

"You are feccia!" Lorenzo shouted, and slapped Sordello's face hard.

"For that I will one day slice open